Remembering
by Celesti Rivers
Summary: Now that WICKED is gone, these teens have other demons to face: memories. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss. Oneshots of our favourite Immunes remembering and coping. Join Aris, Sonya, Siggy, Harriet, Thomas, Dora, Clint, Rose, Minho, and Joan as they venture into a new world - and for the first time, a safer world.
1. Aris

**I have been itching to write a TMR story for so long sooo... here it is. Oneshots and drabbles about remembering. Because we all know these kids have pretty crappy memories.**

 **P.S. - these are arranged chronologically according to their "present," not their memories. So we'll be seeing memories from people when they get their Swipes removed before, say, Thomas or Minho, who will remember much more slowly.**

 **Enjoy :)**

* * *

 _1\. Aris_

* * *

Aris figured that WICKED had a pretty sick sense of humour.

The white room he was placed in after they took out his Swipe had two sets of bunk beds - four beds - but there was only one other person inside.

Teresa.

She stared at him unfalteringly from the moment the door closed, her blue eyes following him as he sat on the bed across from her. Aris tried to avoid looking into her eyes, but it wasn't working very well. Teresa had a very piercing gaze, and he had a pretty good idea of what was on her mind.

There was also the matter of his pertrubing thoughts. His memories had cleared up almost as soon as he stood up from his operating bed, and now he was just left thinking about them, letting them swim in his mind, haunt his brain like horrifying ghosts.

Between the horrible memories and Teresa's glare, Aris figured it was better to face the evil you know.

He looked up and met Teresa's eyes. "My name's Jonathan. What's yours?"

"Deedee," Teresa replied flatly. "I don't give a shuck about that, though. I want to know what you think."

"Think about what?"

"You know what."

Aris pulled his lips in a taut line and looked away from his Group A counterpart. He _did_ know what.

* * *

He is seven years old. Him and his parents live in Denver, but that's not where he was born. He was born in St. Louis, and he knows this with as much certainty as he knows that his name is Jonathan.

That day, two people in green jumpsuits show up. A man and a woman. They have a contraption, which they explain is supposed to test people for the Flare. There are three outcomes: infected, uninfected, and immune.

He isn't sure that he wants to be any of those things. The frightened looks on his parents' faces don't encourage his confidence. They hold onto his shoulders with firm grips, but that's not comforting. They have been acting odd lately.

"Parks, Jonathan," the man calls.

The woman reaches out her hand and urges him forward. He nervously shuffles toward her, and the contraption goes onto his face. There is silence in the room, then a puff of air in his eyes, then the cool metal leaves his face.

"Immune," the woman declares. "Parks, Eileen."

His mother walks forward, the contraption goes on her face. One word and his life changes forever.

"Infected."

Next is his father. The same word.

His parents start crying uncontrollably. He has never seen them so distressed, and he's not sure if it's because of the situation or because the Flare is affecting their brains.

"Your boy will be coming with us," the man says as he crudely points at him.

"Make sure he keeps up with his mathematics," his mother says between sobs. "He's so good at math. My brilliant boy."

The woman chuckles, and he finds the sound a little frightening and unfitting to what is happening around him. She looks over at the man and says, "I guess we know what to call him, huh?"

"There's no nickname to Pythagoras," the man says. "How about Aristotle? We'll call him Aris. Sounds normal enough, especially considering he's anything but normal."

* * *

Aris looked back at Teresa's steely stare. She had a slight frown on her face, and it made him nervous. Nervous that he would say the wrong thing. What did Minho say before Rat Man took him away? It was something about Teresa's loyalty to WICKED - that much Aris could recall. But now, he knew now exactly how involved Teresa was - more than Minho could ever imagine.

But what did it matter at that point, anyways? Their lives were decided. One of them was going to lose his mind - literally. Aris could say whatever he wanted, as far as he was concerned.

"I think we need to leave. I think you - I mean, _WICKED_ is wrong. I think WICKED is wrong."

"So do I."

* * *

 **Don't forget to leave a review!**

 **Sneak peak of next chapter:**

 _"Whoa!" Sonya exclaimed, throwing her hands up and cutting them off with a nervous laugh. "Can I sit? I just had a damn probe in my ear."_

 _"Right."_

 _"Sorry."_

 _The four girls walked over to where the bunk beds. Harriet, Joan, and Dora sat on one bed so Sonya could lie down on the other bottom bed._

 _The moment her head hit the pillow, she had the first clear thought all day._

 _Anita Banks._


	2. Sonya

**Time to look in on the girls...**

* * *

 _2\. Sonya_

* * *

Once the contraption was removed from Sonya's face and she sat up, the memories hit her like a big, fat boulder in the head.

It was all jumbled together, all messed up. She saw faces, remembered names, cities, dates, but they were mismatched. She _knew_ they were mismatched - there was just something _wrong_ about the way they arranged themselves in her head.

One of the medics led her out of the room and down the hall. Sonya didn't count turns - she couldn't think straight - but they stopped in front of another door. Someone opened it and Sonya was gently shoved inside.

The door closed behind her and she looked around. A white room. Two bunk beds and a kitchenette. That was all.

And Harriet, Joan, and Dora, jumping up from their seats to assail her with questions.

"What was the first thing?"

"What's your name?"

"Where are you from?"

"What's - "

"Whoa!" Sonya exclaimed, throwing her hands up and cutting them off with a nervous laugh. "Can I sit? I just had a damn probe in my ear."

"Right."

"Sorry."

The four girls walked over to where the bunk beds. Harriet, Joan, and Dora sat on one bed so Sonya could lie down on the other bottom bed.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she had the first clear thought all day.

Anita Banks.

That was her name. She knew it with absolute certainty, like it was engraved in her bones. Like those were the words tattooed on her back, not "Property of WICKED."

Jasper.

That was where she was born. Jasper, Alberta, nestled in the Rockies.

And then, finally, an actual memory.

* * *

She is five years old. It's been two years since the darts rained down on her old encampment. Banff.

Most died. Died a horrible, sickening death, from a horrible disease. Her and her mother survived. They moved north, until they met other survivors, until they were back home. Jasper.

She is sitting on the bank of a river with two other girls, one on each side. They are holding hands and sitting in complete silence, staring at the sparse, trickling, murky water, enjoying the small patch of shade they found under a white, skeleton tree.

"The river used to be prettier," she murmurs. She remembers how it looked before the sun flares. Clear. Rushing. Lively.

She misses the plants, the trees. She loved - _loves_ \- them, loves reading and talking about them, examining them. Her knowledge is the one thing that is still hers.

"I wish I saw it then," one of the girls says. Her name is Jane. "No fancy rivers or lakes where I was."

"Me too," the other girl says. Her name is Penny. "Do you think it'll go back to being pretty?"

"I hope so," she replies.

They enjoy the silence for a moment longer, until it is broken by a scream, the sound of a Berg, and her mother barrelling up to the girls from the dead forest and urging them to stand up.

"Anita, sweetheart," she breathes out, "we need to run."

* * *

Sonya sat up in an instant and shook her head, hoping to God that the motion would make her once again forget those memories.

No chance of that happening. Sonya's memories were back for good, and she instantly regretted it. She didn't want to remember the men in the green jumpsuits descending onto her mother and friends, snatching them up in a Berg. Taking them to WICKED. Testing their intelligence.

"Sonya?" Harriet asked cautiously. "You all right?"

Sonya nodded slowly in reply. "I just... my head's finally cleared up."

"And you regret it," Dora deadpanned.

Sonya looked over at the girl with the short hair. She always though Dora was a little quirky, with her hair always shaved on the smaller side of her parting and the other side long enough to cover her ear. Sonya was never sure if she kept her hair like that because she liked it or because she wanted to give people a reason to smile at her. Dora always had a crooked smirk on her face that made you feel like you were the next target of her sarcastic remarks.

But she was always the most straightforward and honest one out of all of them.

"Yeah," Sonya agreed quietly.

"Maybe Thomas, Minho, and Newt were right," Harriet muttered. "Maybe it's about time we stopped letting WICKED mess with our heads."

"Figuratively and literally," Joan added. The younger, burly girl was sitting with her arms crossed and brow furrowed, making her look incredibly menacing for a fifteen year-old.

"We should do something," Dora decided. "Find Teresa and Aris, see where they stand. If even _they_ aren't happy with their memories, then we have to - to - "

"Escape."

Dora met Sonya's eyes and smirked. "Just like the good old days."

* * *

 **Yes, some of these chapters will be centred on Group B OCs. After all, that group had more survivors, and I had a few ideas for how some of them would be.**

 **Sneak peek of next chapter:**

 _But Frypan's joy had disappeared in an instant. With the disappearance of the headache came an unexpected, foreign feeling of clarity. Clarity. It was something he had yearned for in the Maze, and he finally had it._

 _Seeing the big picture for the first time in his life had not been comforting, though, and his first thought had been that Thomas and Minho were right. That he should have never backed out of keeping the Swipe._

 _He finally understood Alby._


	3. Siggy

**Yay for minor characters? I think yes.**

* * *

 _3\. Siggy_

* * *

The moment Frypan had sat down on the bottom bunk next to Clint, his headache had disappeared.

He had nearly yelped out in joy. The damn migraine had been bugging him since he got his Swipe removed, and he had been just about ready to write WICKED a formal complaint for being downright jerks. Train your damn medics, right?

But Frypan's joy had dissipated in an instant. With the disappearance of the headache came an unexpected, foreign feeling of clarity. _Clarity_. It was something he had yearned for in the Maze, and he finally had it.

Seeing the big picture for the first time in his life had not been comforting, though, and his first thought had been that Thomas and Minho were right. That he should have never backed out of keeping the Swipe.

He finally understood Alby.

The second thought on his mind had been a memory.

* * *

He is four years old when they come for him.

The sun flares were the worst for him and his mom. Living in Florida meant that they were close to the place people now called the Scorch, and it was the place most affected by the sun flares.

Somehow, though, he and his mom survived. They moved northwest until they hit the Rockies. Met some other survivors. Got welcomed into a camp.

Everything was fine until the darts rained down on them.

Since that day, he and his mom were on the run. They are now close to what used to be the American-Canadian border. Probably somewhere in Montana.

He misses Florida, the sun, the humidity, the beach, the warm ocean. What was the point in them surviving the flares and the brain disease if they can't turn back time to when things were right?

They are resting in an old, dilapidated barn. It did not have any food or supplies, probably ransacked long before they got there, but that means it is safe. And it provides shelter.

It is early morning when they hear the wooshing and whirring. The mechanical sounds haunt him and constrict his chest. He knows it's a Berg, and so does his mom. She soundlessly and hurriedly wraps up their belongings and picks him up in her arms, then races for a trapdoor under a bale of hay. She opens it, urges him inside, and she follows.

Then, there is darkness. The Berg noises stop, and are replaced by footsteps and creaking floorboards.

"Here! Trapdoor!"

His mom curses under her breath and squeezes him tightly to her. He sees tears in her eyes, and hears a soft sob escape her throat.

"Let's run, mom," he whispers.

"We can't, hon," she whispers back. "Just pray, sweetheart. Pray."

His prayers are left unanswered. The trapdoor flies open, men and women in green jumpsuits come into their hiding spot with weapons in their hands. They tear him from his mom, ignoring her shrieks, his cries, and when they steal him away into the Berg, all they can do is make crude jokes.

"The kid is _so_ attached to his mommy, huh?"

"Not for long."

"I bet he's his generation's Sigmund Freud, the big crybaby."

"Let's call him that. Siggy. How's that sound, Siggy?"

* * *

Now, it was morning. That was what the clock in their room said. Clint had taken the top bunk. Jackson - the poor Crank - was sleeping in the bed across from him, and the bed above him was empty.

That was all. They were six. From fifty-something, they were six. And two were going to drop like flies any day now.

"You awake, Frypan?" Clint called out quietly.

Frypan sat up and said, "Yeah. Didn't get a very restful sleep."

"Me too. Too much to think about."

"I don't want to think anymore."

"Me too, man. Get a load of WICKED, right? Damn shanks."

Frypan chuckled softly. He heard the bed above him creak and saw a pair of feet land on the floor. Clint sat down next to him on the bottom bed.

"You know how they said that our memories were supposed to make us see sense and want to help them?" Clint asked quietly.

Frypan nodded in reply.

"Well, it sure doesn't feel that way."

"Yeah. I know. Shucking bastards."

"What are we going to do about it?" Clint asked.

"What can we do, man?" Frypan replied. "Jackson is living a death sentence, Teresa and Aris and the rest of the girls are WICKED's number one fans... man. What a bunch of klunk."

"Hey, remember when - "

Clint's interjection got cut off by a loud bang on the door. Another bang. Another. A dent appeared around the knob. Finally, with one more loud bang, the door flew open to reveal the last people the two boys expected to see.

Teresa. Aris. Sonya. Harriet. Some more girls behind them.

"Let's make a run for it, you damn sticks."

* * *

 **Don't forget to leave a review! :)**

 **Sneak peek of the next chapter:**

 _"Harriet," Sonya started calmly, "there are over two hundred people milling around a random place. If anyone can stay levelheaded for long enough to get everyone organized, it's you. After that, you can decide if you want to stay in charge or not."_

 _Harriet glared back at Sonya. She hated when her former co-leader just made so much sense._

 _She had always made a lot of sense, when Harriet thought about it._


	4. Harriet

**Jumping away from the Swipe-removal and to the Epilogue of the last book :)**

* * *

 _4\. Harriet_

* * *

"You should be in charge."

Harriet's eyes widened in shock once her brain processed the words that left Sonya's mouth.

"No way in hell, stick," Harriet said automatically.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one with 'Leader' tattooed on my back," Sonya pointed out.

"He has it, too!" Harriet exclaimed as she emphatically pointed at Minho, who took a cautious step back. "And Thomas - wherever that damn stick is - he had his own plaques all over the _goddamned Scorch_."

"Harriet," Sonya started calmly, "there are over two hundred people milling around a random place. If anyone can stay levelheaded for long enough to get everyone organized, it's you. After that, you can decide if you want to stay in charge or not."

Harriet glared back at Sonya. She hated when her former co-leader just made _so much sense_.

She had always made a lot of sense, when Harriet thought about it.

* * *

When Harriet first met Sonya, she thought that the girl one year her senior was just _such_ a girl.

Harriet soon realized how wrong she was.

Sonya is logical, kind, and ambitious. She is someone that Harriet looks up to, and whenever they are partnered together for puzzles, Harriet is overjoyed.

Except in this particular moment.

"Come on, Harriet," Sonya urges. "You know this."

"I don't."

"It's just a leaf cross-section."

"Exactly."

Sonya sighs over-dramatically and pushes the drawing closer to Harriet. The eleven year-old girl just has to label and define all of the parts of a leaf cross-section in under six minutes and then the two of them will be free for the rest of the day. Sonya probably doesn't think it's too difficult and, knowing her, she's probably already finished the task in her mind, but plant biology is her area of expertise.

For Harriet... not so much.

Harriet doesn't understand plants. She doesn't understand why she has to understand plants. Ask her to design an indestructible bridge, or put together a wristwatch with parts from a Jack-in-a-box and she will excel. But plants? No can do.

"Harriet," Sonya starts, "the sooner you get started on this and finish, the sooner we can go for lunch."

Harriet deepens her glare.

"And go talk to the cute boys," Sonya adds.

Harriet's glare softens.

"And play cards."

Finally, Harriet lets out a dejected sigh and picks up her pencil as she says, "Fine. But only for the cards. Not the boys."

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

"Although, I _would_ like to kick the boys' butts at cards."

* * *

"Damn you for being right," Harriet grumbled as she glared at Sonya.

Sonya only smiled and looked around at the rest of their small group. The people that were chosen for Guild Leaders. The ones that had, somehow, mustered just enough energy to stand around in a circle and make decisions.

There was Minho, who would be in charge of the Navigators. He hadn't seemed all too eager to lead _anything_ at first, but then Clint pushed him into their circle and said something about how he drew great maps. That automatically got him nominated for a position that he begrudgingly filled.

Dora and Clint would be in charge of the Medics. The boys swore by Clint's skill as a Med-jack (what a silly name) in the Maze, and the girls couldn't help but brag about how Dora could cauterize a wound blindfolded. Neither of them wanted to create a scene, so they gladly shared the leadership.

Joan would be in charge of the Guards. The curly-haired blonde girl may have only been fifteen, but she was taller than some of the boys and all muscle. She was also insanely good at making weapons and could look quite menacing when she wanted to.

Frypan would be in charge of the Cooks. There was no dispute about that, and he seemed happy to take charge. Harriet briefly wondered what codename WICKED had given him, but then she realized that he probably kept it hidden for a reason.

Gally would be in charge of the Builders - a position Harriet had originally shared with him, before her nomination as Leader. She hated that she wouldn't be in charge of designing the village and made a point to criticize him at every turn.

Mala would be in charge of the Teachers. The girl was a complete sweetheart and was very much against doing anything that remotely resembled her role in the Maze, so teaching it was.

Gail would be in charge of the Apothecary. She knew her way around plants just as well as Sonya, so Harriet figured that that was a smart decision.

Aris would be in charge of the Hunters. Harriet could tell he still felt horrible about the things WICKED made him do and was trying to make amends by taking on the role, since he didn't look all too comfortable. Minho's glares probably weren't helping.

And, finally, Sonya would be in charge of the Foragers. That was the one person Harriet knew she wouldn't be having too much trouble with keeping motivated.

But things would still be hard, for _all_ of them, and Harriet knew that with certainty. How could a bunch of teenagers be expected to restart civilization? Was it even possible?

They would have to make it possible.

"All right, Guild Leaders. First things first," Harriet started. "Find people to lead. There are over two hundred people out there. Doctors, pharmacists, teachers, nurses, architects, cops - find them."

"What about the kids?" Mala asked.

"Once you find some people to help you teach, keep them busy with drawing in the sand or something," Harriet suggested.

"Clint and I will handle the injured as soon as we find some others to help," Dora offered. "I think there's an Internist somewhere in the throng."

"Sounds good," Harriet confirmed. "Navigators and Builders: work together to find a good place for our central village. Cooks, Foragers, and Hunters: work together to figure out rationing and meal plans. Any other questions?"

Silence.

"Then get moving, sticks!"

"Aye, aye, captain," Sonya shouted in reply with a joking salute.

* * *

 **Look at all of the business getting done while Thomas and Brenda were otherwise occupied. Honestly. ;)**

 **Sneak peek of next chapter:**

 _Aris didn't reply right away, and this prompted Thomas to look back at his hunting partner. He nearly jumped when he realized that Aris had been staring him down with a furrowed brow the entire time._

 _"You know, I still think you'd be better at leading the Hunters than me," Aris finally said._

 _Thomas looked away. He was done leading, but Aris wasn't done pestering him about it. "Well, you're wrong."_


	5. Thomas

**Finally, I get Thomas done. Here it is!**

* * *

 _5\. Thomas_

* * *

"That was a hell of a shot, Thomas."

Thomas looked next to him when he heard his name and his eyes met those of Aris. The two teens were carrying a deer between the two of them after quite the successful hunting trip.

"According to the most recent numbers from the Navigators, we could kill one deer this week without causing significant harm so," Thomas paused and looked away from Aris as he shrugged, "I went for it. No one else was assigned deer today, anyways."

Aris didn't reply right away, and this prompted Thomas to look back at his hunting partner. He nearly jumped when he realized that Aris had been staring him down with a furrowed brow the entire time.

"You know, I still think you'd be better at leading the Hunters than me," Aris finally said.

Thomas looked away. He was done leading, but Aris wasn't done pestering him about it. "Well, you're wrong."

Aris didn't push it after that. They walked back to the village centre - aptly named Paradise Central - in complete silence. As they neared Central, the bustle and hustle of the village broke through their silence and took away the awkwardness. Finally, they had a reason to stay quiet.

Once in Paradise Central, the two boys made a beeline for the Hunters Hut. Paradise Central was located in the largest forest clearing they had yet to find. It was bordered by a dense forest on one side and, after a sparsity of trees, an open meadow on the other side. It was approximately three miles away from the seaside. The cliffside above the ocean had been the initial location of Central, but that didn't allow many possibilities for defenses and escape should they be attacked, so they moved to the clearing.

Paradise Central was planned in such a way that all of the Guild Headquarters were arranged in a circle, with the Town Hall in the middle of it all. No one lived in Central - it simply served as an economic centre. The majority of people lived in the one mile radius surrounding Central, mostly in the meadow, and a few lived about two miles out.

The Hunters Hut was, more or less, a misnomer. The log cabin was quite large, with two rooms and an annexed wooden shed attached by an outdoor hall about fifteen feet long. The bigger room, which everyone entered into, had a colourful map of the region marking mating and habitat areas of certain animal species, a round table with chairs all around it in the centre, and two chalkboards. One of the boards had the names and assignments of all of the Hunters and the other had the list and numbers of animals that could be safely hunted in the current week.

The second, smaller room only had a square table. All of the walls were covered in hunting weapons - some made, some found. There was a chalkboard next to the doorway with inventory.

Finally, the shed was where meat was stored and preserved. It was also annexed by the Cook House, since Frypan and his apprentices often preferred to butcher the meat themselves.

After Thomas and Aris carried the deer over to the shed, they returned to the large room. Aris made a beeline for what they called the Quota Board and crossed out 'Deer - 1' with a granite rock that was resting on the round table. The chalkboards, abundant paper, and hunting knives were three of the many necessities that were found in the bunker underneath the burnt Flat Trans.

Thomas sat in a chair tiredly and waited for the other Hunters to trickle in as the sun started setting. His mind went blank, and maybe he even napped. Thomas couldn't really remember.

But he did remember _something_.

* * *

He is four years old. It's something he feels very strongly, so his birthday must have been recent. He is sitting at a dinner table, his mother next to him. In front of him is a plate of eggs and toast. The meal feels special. Rare.

His mother reaches under the table and pulls out a book. It is thin, tattered, and has a strange checkered pattern on the cover. She slides the book over to him.

"Your father loved crosswords and sudoku," she says quietly. "Do you want to do a puzzle together?"

He nods. The book feels like a game, and he knows that he loves games, like any little kid.

His mother opens the book to a nine-by-nine square with some random numbers printed in a few of the small squares. She explains the rules briefly - one of each number one through nine in each row, column, and box - and slides her chair closer to him as she grabs a pencil.

She writes in a number, and that's when he sees it. Not the number that should be next to it or below it - he sees _every_ number. The puzzle makes sense, hovers in his mind like a brand. He grabs the pencil from his mother, perhaps a bit too excitedly, and fills it in rapidly.

His mother looks at him in shock as he slides the finished puzzle to her five minutes later with a proud smile on his face.

* * *

"Thomas!"

Thomas snapped out of his daydream at the loud noise and noticed that all of the Hunters had returned. The sky was a light purple already, and some of the boys, girls, men, and women were looking at him like he was a strange alien. Most of them shrugged, and the final meeting of the day commenced.

However, he couldn't shake the memory, and all of the extra knowledge that came with it. When they first started working on building Paradise, one of the Group B girls had theorized that all of them were particularly intelligent in a very specific field, and that's what made them such predictable Variables. Thomas always knew that for him that field was mathematics and cryptanalysis, but he hated that WICKED had made him that way.

Now, it no longer seemed that way.

* * *

 **Ever since Thomas went all "code words hidden in the maze" I imagined him to be skilled at cryptanalysis. Don't forget to leave a review!**

 **Sneak peek of the next chapter:**

 _Benjamin Wyatt. That was the name of the first baby born in Paradise. After ten hours of labour, blood, and trying everything imaginable to avoid a crude Caesarean section, the wailing kid was finally born and the mother was relatively healthy and sane of mind._

 _And Dora was tired. Very, very tired. She may have been named after Metrodora, but that didn't mean the eighteen year-old girl had the same adeptness for women's health as the female Ancient Greek physician._


	6. Dora

**First OC of this series - I'll have more of a blurb about her at the end of this chapter :)**

* * *

 _6\. Dora_

* * *

Benjamin Wyatt. That was the name of the first baby born in Paradise. After ten hours of labour, blood, and trying everything imaginable to avoid a crude Caesarean section, the wailing kid was finally born and the mother was relatively healthy and sane of mind.

And Dora was tired. Very, very tired. She may have been named after Metrodora, but that didn't mean that the eighteen year old girl had the same adeptness for women's health as the female Ancient Greek physician.

Dr. Crane did praise her skill, though, and he had been one of the best Internists in North America, so she must have at least been an average obstetrician.

After a quarter-mile walk from the Infirmary, Dora reached her cabin situated in the meadow. While the trees may have kept her safer from any attackers, the density of the forest gave her a feeling of claustrophobia. She never had claustrophobia before the Maze trials, but now it haunted her.

Anyways, Dora had opted for one of the cabins built in the meadow, and as a Guild Leader, she got first pick. Most of the Guild Leaders lived in the same row of cabins, actually, which was nice. She enjoyed passing by Sonya and Harriet on her walk to Central in the morning. And she enjoyed poking fun at Sonya when she walked back to her cabin in the morning after spending the night at her boyfriend's cabin.

(That's what she got for having an older boyfriend, as far as Dora was concerned.)

However, Dora didn't think she would have the energy to get up the next morning, because the moment her body hit her thin mattress, she was asleep.

And the memories followed.

* * *

She is five years old, and she wakes up in a stuffy, crowded, acrid-smelling tent. She can't stand it, so she exits, and hopes that maybe today is the day she breathes in fresh air.

No such luck. Humid, searingly hot air invades her nostrils, burns her lungs. She looks down and sees her father passed out in front of the tent. The man was too drunk the night before to even crawl into his cot.

She may only be five, but she knows one thing with certainty: she hates alcohol. Moonshine. Hooch. Whatever the adults call it, she is certain that it will steal her father from her before the sun flares come back.

Not that that would be worse than living in their small, filthy encampment nestled in the Laurentian Mountains. Between the mediocre moonshiners (a handful of people have already suffered at the hand of methanol poisoning) and the murky water, the place is a hell on Earth.

However, when her nostrils finally adjust to the hot air, she smells something familiar. Boiling oil. Potatoes.

She races to the central fire pit and nearly squeals in joy when she sees the sight before her.

Several of the adults - some more hungover than others - frying potatoes and reducing chicken broth to gravy. Children tearing open packages of cheese curds.

Her mother is in the middle of the throng, and she smiles tiredly when she catches sight of her daughter.

"Ah, Mirela! Good morning. We received cheese curds from Montreal because they don't spoil as quickly," her mother explains in French. She's not sure how she knows this, but the language seems so natural to her ears. "So we decided to make poutine. You kids deserve to taste it."

She nods excitedly and goes to help the other kids with opening packages of cheese curds and handing out bowls and cups.

It is late morning by the time everyone has their serving of poutine and her stomach is growling noisily, but she savours all of the flavours in the simple and traditional dish. It brings a sense of normalcy to her hectic life.

* * *

A loud knock on Dora's door woke her up and she lazily stumbled out of bed with an irritated grumble.

She was a bit grateful for the interruption, though. A week after that event, the darts had come flying down, and she would have hated for her dream to turn into a nightmare.

With a tired grunt, Dora opened her door and scowled at the person that had knocked.

"What is it, Minho?" she mumbled. "I don't have the time or energy for your stupidly earned injuries."

Minho raised his eyebrows in amusement and held out his palm to show the key he was holding. It was Dora's key to the numbing agents cabinet. She felt her glare turn into a shocked gape. Dora _never_ forgot her key.

"Clint said you left it behind and asked me to bring it to you," he explained with the same look of amusement.

Dora sighed heavily and grabbed the key. "Thanks," she grumbled. "And stop looking at me like that. Or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else next time you need me to cauterize a wound, I'll miss."

Minho let out a displeased grunt, but he had a faint smile on his face as he sarcastically muttered, "Ouch. That really hurt me."

"Not as much as that hot knife is going to hurt you."

"Good night, Dora."

"Bon nuit," Dora mumbled in reply.

Minho stopped as he was turning to walk away from her and gave her a quizzical look. "What did you say?"

"I said 'good night,'" Dora snapped nervously. "Now get off my lawn, you meddling kid."

Minho rolled his eyes and lazily waved goodbye as he turned to walk two cabins to the left to his place.

Dora close the door and cursed her memories. They always muddled her thought processes at the worst times.

* * *

 **Okay. So, as you read, Dora is named after Metrodora. She was born in Montreal, and she was the only Immune in her family. Her main area of expertise is human biology and epidemiology.**

 **Don't forget to leave a review! Here's a sneak peek of the next chapter, our second leader of the Medics:**

 _So that was how Clint found himself cooped up inside, on a perfectly sunny day, managing a rather crude distillery with Dr. Teague watching him closely._

 _"That's it..." Dr. Teague encouraged quietly. "Perfect. You'd think you've been doing this for your whole life!"_

 _Clint snorted and said, "You could say that."_

 _Dr. Teague's face fell as he realized he had made a poor choice of words._


	7. Clint

**Time for our favourite Med-jack :)**

* * *

 _7\. Clint_

* * *

In a perfectly still silence, Clint tinkered with the makeshift distillery that Dr. Teague had set up at the back of the Infirmary.

When building the Infirmary, they had set aside a small room with a lock for the purpose of locking up the tools and the alcohol. Harriet had made it very clear to everyone that they were not to _drink_ any of it - it was merely for medical purposes. They couldn't afford alcoholism on their already heaping plate of problems.

That received many displeased groans, of course, but Harriet wasn't backing down, and Clint kind of had to agree with her. They were smart enough to know that they shouldn't drink their brains to mush.

Anyways, Dr. Teague was a world-renowned organic chemist and could manage a distillery blindfolded, but he couldn't live forever, so he had decided that it would be best if he trained the leaders of the Medics to manage the distillery. Clint had been fine with the idea, but Dora had been vehemently against learning how to make alcohol - something about wanting to keep far away from the substance. She had recommended Brenda, instead.

So that was how Clint found himself cooped up inside, on a perfectly sunny day, managing a rather crude distillery with Dr. Teague watching him closely.

"That's it..." Dr. Teague encouraged quietly. "Perfect. You'd think you've been doing this for your whole life!"

Clint snorted and said, "You could say that."

Dr. Teague's face fell as he realized he had made a poor choice of words.

Clint didn't really notice. His eyes were glazed over, his thoughts elsewhere.

* * *

He is twelve years old. The room he is in is all white, and the only colour comes from the blue glow of the computer screens on the glass walls and the fluorescent bulbs above his head.

He stands at a table with some parts in front of him. He recognizes them as different types of chemistry lab equipment, and his hands are assembling them in a certain manner. There is another person in the room - a much older man with thick glasses - standing on the other side of the table. He is closely watching each and every one of his moves.

"Easy does it, Clint... perfect!"

He steps back and looks at his work. He's been in there for a couple hours. There are papers with sketches and notes strewn across the floor, all of the sketches resembling the structure he has built with the lab equipment. A distillery.

"All right then, Clint," the man says. "Now, tell me four facts about ethanol."

"It's a psychoactive drug, it can be used as a disinfectant, it can be used as a sedative, and..." he trails off, racking his mind for another fact. He knows the man doesn't want just _any_ fact, so he tries to pick out the one he thinks the man will like most. "It is released by yeast during anaerobic cellular respiration."

"Brilliant!" the man praises. "Now, tell me why methanol is more harmful to humans than ethanol, including a description of its oxidation."

He recites the two oxidation steps of methanol, leading to formic acid. The words are automatic. This is something he just _knows_ , like he knows that the sky is blue and Santa Claus is a fairytale and dental hygiene is important.

He continues to talk about the harmful effects of each of the three substances - methanol, formaldehyde, and formic acid - on the human body, as well as the metabolization of ethanol, until he doesn't have a single fact left in him.

The old man smiles at the end and says, "Well done. Off to lunch with you. And remember: WICKED is good."

* * *

"Clint? You okay?"

Clint snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of Dr. Teague's voice and turned to the middle aged man with a forced smile.

"Yeah, peachy," Clint replied. "Just thinking about, you know, memories."

Dr. Teague nodded and gave Clint a sympathetic look. "You know, you have friends to help you with that burden," he said with a concerned tone.

Clint nodded, trying to take Dr. Teague's words to heart. However, he couldn't help but think that however the man _assumed_ Clint felt didn't even skim the surface of how he _actually_ felt.

It hurt to realize that everything he was - from his skills to his personality - was shaped by WICKED. The very people that kicked his ass into a shucking box and sent him into the Maze. The people that forced him to trek across the Scorch. The people that took Alby, Chuck, Jackson, Newt...

He had _them_ to thank for who he was, and that thought sickened him.

A knock on the door pulled Clint out of his trance. He looked up to see Brenda standing in the doorway.

"I'm ready to become a moonshiner," Brenda declared with a joking tone and a smile.

Clint returned her smile, but Dr. Teague was having none of her jesting. "Now, now, Brenda. I am a very well-educated organic chemist, _not_ a moonshiner. Moonshiners are so crude in their making of alcohol. What I do is, more or less, an art."

"All right, Fredrik, don't get your panties in a twist," Brenda said as she put her hands in front of her in mock surrender. "Just kidding around with you."

"Yes, I'll say. Me? A moonshiner? Quite the joke," Dr. Teague said in agreement. He turned to Clint and added, "You're off for today, bud."

Clint stood up and shook hands with the doctor, however, just as he was turning to leave, he got startled by a sudden outburst.

" _You are such an idiot!_ "

Clint looked to Brenda in confusion. "What's going on out there?" he asked.

Brenda seemed to be trying very hard to hide her laughter. "Minho tripped in the dinner queue and broke his wrist, so Dora's yelling at him for wasting her resources on such a stupid injury."

" _Tripping in the dinner queue? What kind of stupid stick are you?_ "

"Sounds like Dora."

" _What is it with you girls and calling people sticks? That's shucking stupid!_ "

" _As if shank is **so** much better! What, you gonna shank me in my sleep, shank?_ "

That was the last straw. Both Brenda and Clint doubled over in laughter, and even Dr. Teague joined in with a quiet chuckle.

* * *

 **There you have it!**

 **Sneak peek of next chapter:**

 _She is five years old and the sky is burning._

 _Her and the rest of the girls in the girls' dormitory at St. Margaret's Orphanage crowd around the window to get a peek of the strange colour of the sun._

 _Their fascination is short-lived, however, as the urgency and panic etched onto the faces of Sister Nancy and Sister Tina makes the young girls realize that there is something terribly wrong._


	8. Rose

**Yep, another OC! More about her at the end of the chapter :)**

* * *

 _8\. Rose_

* * *

Rose and Sonya carried a large basket of berries between them on their way back to camp after a long day of foraging. They both had streaks of mud on their faces and arms, as well as smiles dancing across their lips.

It had been a good day, all in all.

The two teens stopped at the Foragers' Flat and walked into the largest room of the low, wooden building. A round table with several chairs around it stood in the middle. Sonya walked over to the Inventory Board and added a tally mark next to 'Berries.'

The younger girl walked back to the older and helped her with the basket into the smaller room, where they stored all of their foraging. Sonya and Rose placed their basket below a wooden sign that read 'Berries.' This smaller room was connected to the Cooks House by an outdoor hall about ten feet long that extended from the right side of the Foragers' Flat.

Sonya turned to Rose with a satisfied sigh, hands on her hips. "Nothing like a good forage, right, Rose?"

Rose smiled at the blonde girl and nodded. "Yeah. Although, I feel pretty filthy."

"Ooh, let's stop by the Infirmary before we go get water for washing," Sonya suggested as she linked her arm with Rose's. "I don't know about you, but I'm in need of a little, uh, _padding_."

Rose laughed and said, "Yeah, same here. I guess after all these years we're pretty synchronized."

The two girls walked in a companionable silence on their way to the large building that housed most of the medical and hygienic supplies, until Sonya broke that silence with a question.

"Rose, I hate to ask, but... you've never talked about your memories," she started. "I mean, all of us have at least mentioned our real names, or something, but you haven't said a peep. Of course, you don't have to, but... I'm just curious, is all. How was your life before WICKED?"

"Honestly?" Rose asked. "Not a whole lot better."

* * *

She is five years old and the sky is burning.

 _The Sisters were wrong_ , she thinks jokingly. _There is no heaven up there, just hell._

Her and the rest of the girls in the girls' dormitory at St. Margaret's Orphanage crowd around the window to get a peek of the strange colour of the sun.

Their fascination is short-lived, however, as the urgency and panic etched onto the faces of Sister Nancy and Sister Tina makes the young girls realize that there is something terribly wrong.

The two nuns rush the girls out of the room, pick up the boys from their dormitory, and continue until they are outside of the orphanage without so much as a sideway glance at any of the orphans.

Once outside, the two Sisters finally face the throng of orphans. Sister Nancy says, "Something terrible is going on, and we need to keep you safe. You'll have to come with us and listen to every word we say."

"Sometimes, we tolerate your petty rule-breaking," Sister Tina continues, "but not today. Today, any rule-breaking is a matter of life and death. Is that clear?"

The orphans nod nervously, and the two nuns lead them out into the meadow surrounding the orphanage. Sister Nancy kicks aside some dry grass and throws open a metal trapdoor. She gestures for all of them to go inside, underground, and they abide.

The trapdoor closes as soon as Sister Nancy is inside and darkness fills the room. Soon, a flashlight flickers on and reveals Sister Tina, who is handing out more flashlights. She feels one slapped into her hands and hurriedly turns it on.

She shines the light on the room to examine the contents. There are shelves with cans of foods right next to her. The expiry dates are all in about a month. There are cushioned benches. Sleeping bags in one corner. Gallon jugs of water in another.

"Imani!" Sister Nancy scolds. "Do not waste your battery! We only need Sister Tina's light for now."

She promptly turns her light off and takes a seat on one of the benches and waits. She waits for a very long time, all of the orphans sitting in the dimly lit room in complete silence. Everyone too afraid to say anything and too comfortable in the silence to be bothered to disrupt it.

The underground bunker grows very hot at one point, and the two nuns begin handing out fireproof blankets. She feels fear drape her just as she drapes the blanket over her shoulders. It adds an uncomfortable amount of heat in the already hot room.

One of the younger girls - only three years old - nuzzles against her and sobs lightly.

She, too, hears a sob escape her mouth just as tears start streaming down her cheeks.

* * *

"So, there you have it," Rose finally said. "Orphan for life."

"Oh, Rose, I'm sorry for asking," Sonya said quietly.

Rose only shrugged and said, "The only reason I kept it from you guys is because... you all had people to miss. For me, I didn't have many friends, let alone a _family_ , until WICKED found me. I felt like the bad guy, you know? Feeling like WICKED actually did some _good_ in my life."

"You're not the bad guy," Sonya said confidently as they walked into the Infirmary.

"Thank you for that," Rose replied quietly. She turned to greet Dora, who was sitting at the desk by the Infirmary entrance. "We're here for the good stuff."

Dora wordlessly reached under her desk and pulled out two small, pink, flat packages. She threw them at Rose and Sonya with a mischievous smile. Pads and tampons were, thankfully, some of the necessities that were found in the bunker underneath the burnt Flat Trans. It had been a moment of pure joy for the girls.

"What? No checking to make sure that we're not stealing them just for a little spotting?" Sonya teased, referring to Dr. Crane's strict rules on resource overconsumption.

Dora raised an eyebrow and replied, "Please. We're all so synchronized that I _know_ you're not lying." She paused and gestured with her head behind the two girls. "Besides, even Brenda's matched us."

Sonya and Rose turned to see Brenda sitting in a chair behind them drinking some water.

"I'm genuinely surprised she's still getting a period, though," Dora muttered under her breath. "You'd think she'd be knocked up by now."

Sonya and Rose laughed as Brenda's face flushed, but the older brunette quickly turned to Sonya with a pointed look and said, "At least I'm not the one getting noise complaints about me every time I'm at my boyfriend's cabin."

Dora and Rose roared with laughter at that. Brenda walked over to Dora's desk so she could high-five the two girls and give Sonya a knowing wink.

"Oh man," Dora said as her laughter died down. "Whoever said that we lost our good years to WICKED was dead wrong."

* * *

 **Okay! So, Rose is named after Rosa Parks, she was an orphan living in Alabama before the sun flares, and her knowledge is specialized in plant biology and food chemistry. She's also one of the older girls, being nineteen.**

 **Sneak peek of the next chapter (Minho, finally!):**

 _Falling asleep was easy, but lately, Minho had been getting dreams._

 _When he had told Thomas about them, his friend had looked mortified. Like someone just found a dead body in the Town Hall. Then, the younger boy told him they weren't dreams - they were memories, and Thomas had been having them since the Scorch._

 _The dreams were bad enough, but now that Minho knew they were memories, they were even worse._


	9. Minho

**Time for our favourite sarcastic character! ;)**

* * *

 _9\. Minho_

* * *

Falling asleep was easy, but lately, Minho had been getting dreams.

When he had told Thomas about them, his friend had looked mortified. Like someone just found a dead body in the Town Hall. Then, the younger boy told him they weren't dreams - they were memories, and Thomas had been having them since the Scorch.

So it turned out that the Swipe wasn't foolproof, and when the Right Arm blew WICKED's mainframe to pieces, that probably weakened the little device in Minho's head even more. Thomas probably had started getting memories earlier because of the Changing.

The dreams were bad enough, but now that Minho knew they were memories, they were even worse. He didn't want to sleep anymore - no matter how much fatigue tugged at his eyelids, or how lulling the stars were, or how cozy it felt to share the bed.

Sleep came for him, though. Just like it came for everybody else.

* * *

He is six years old, and he lives with his family in the same house he grew up in, even though it's been three years since the sun flares scorched the Earth and two years since the Flare became rampant. They live in a city close to Mount Baker, so the elevation helps keep things relatively normal.

Until his older brother is assailed on his way home from work and taken away for being infected with the Flare.

Alex's infected status spurs investigation into the rest of the family. Now, the little boy sits on a couch with his parents in their living room as the two men in green suits explain the process that determines your status. Infected, uninfected, or immune. The words are muffled nonsense for him, though. Nothing matters if Alex isn't around.

"Because your older son has the Flare, it's very likely all of you do as well," one of the men says. "If that's the case, we'll need the names and contact info of all of the people with whom you have interacted in the last month."

His father nods, a solemn look on his face. "Please, let's get on with this," he says tiredly. "I have already lost a son. Don't make me lose my patience, as well."

The other man nods slowly and says, "Right. The first resident we will be testing is Kim, Eric."

He feels a jab in his side as his mother gently pushes him to get off the couch. "Don't be scared," she whispers in Korean. He knows the language like he knows the back of his hand, but he cannot find the courage to reply.

He walks over to the men and they place the metal contraption over his face. He tries to ignore the tension in the room and the surprising puff of air in his face.

"Immune," the first man says with a hint of surprise.

"Next: Kim, Dennis."

They test his father and mother, and the result is the same for both of them: immune.

The men seem surprised, and they whisper hurriedly to each other as they put away their tools. Finally, when everything is packed away, one of them turns to the family.

"You should know that there is a lot of hostility towards Immunes," he says. "Fistfights, knife fights, muggings, burglary. It's horrifying. Especially since we can't catch all of the Cran - er, infected people. The ones past the Gone are more likely to act out. You are actually in a lot of danger. All of you."

"We can offer protection for your son, though," the other man says. " _Only_ your son."

His parents look at each other and in a split second, there is an understanding. He feels the queasiness long before the two words leave his father's mouth.

"Take him."

* * *

Minho woke up with a gasp and a jolt. Sitting up, he looked around the room frantically, his heart rate slowing down as he took in the familiar surroundings. The wooden walls. The clothes strewn all over the place. The breathing lump next to him.

It was just a dream. A memory. He had nothing to worry about anymore. Not really, anyways.

"Go to sleep already, you damn stick."

"Ela," Minho called.

"Stop calling me that," Dora grumbled in reply.

"I'll let you call _me_ by my real name," he suggested.

With a heavy sigh, Dora rolled onto her back and looked up at Minho.

"I already call you Minnie," she said. "I thought we decided that fit you brilliantly."

"You decided," Minho corrected. "Eric. That's my real name."

Dora wrinkled her nose and looked around the room in faux deep thought. "No, I think I prefer Minnie," she finally said as she returned her gaze to him. "So, how do you feel?"

"About remembering?"

"Yeah."

"Shucking horrible."

Dora remained silent, examining him with a small frown on her face. He could tell she was trying to figure out if he was playing down his emotions or being honest.

He was playing them down. And she saw right through it.

"You were right to not get your Swipe removed," Dora said. "Worst decision of my life."

"Guess I'm getting my memories back no matter what, though, so I might as well have let WICKED take it out back then," Minho grumbled.

"Yeah, but... at least now they're coming back slowly," she said quietly. "If you got your Swipe removed, all of your memories would have hit you like an avalanche, and then after a few minutes, you have the whole story. It's... shocking. It feels like you're being repeatedly dunked in ice water."

"I remembered my parents," he muttered.

No reply came, and Minho almost thought she was rolling her eyes at him, until he felt her arm drape across his shoulders. Dora squeezed him close to her and wrapped the other arm around his torso.

"That's always the worst memory," she replied softly.

* * *

 **I always figured Minho was born in a pretty normal family. Don't know why :P**

 **Sneak peek of next chapter, featuring an OC:**

 _She tries to steady her breathing and tune out everything until all she hears is the_ lub-dub _of her heart and all she sees is the target in front of her. She pulls back the bow, arrow poised, squints at her target, and -_ bullseye _._

 _A long screech of the whistle goes off, and she drops the bow in her hands, crumples to the ground, and finally lets out a groan of pain._


	10. Joan

**Here is another OC for your reading pleasure... she has been mentioned before, so I thought it would only be fair to elaborate :)**

* * *

 _10\. Joan_

* * *

Joan fixed the wall of weapons in front of her with a burning glare.

Something was missing.

"Evening, Joan!"

The young girl's glare faltered as Aris walked into the Weapons Room of the Hunters' Hut and returned his hunting knife. Joan pointedly looked at her watch and then back at Aris, who only shrugged.

"Come on, Joan," he said, "I'm only, what? Five minutes late."

"Seven."

"See? No big deal."

Aris gave her a pat on the shoulder before strolling out of the Weapons Room and Joan rolled her eyes. Honestly, the fifteen year-old couldn't help but think that sometimes, she was the only one that took anything seriously. With an annoyed sigh, Joan checked off the Hunters' Hut on her clipboard and made her way back to the Guards' Headquarters.

One of the many responsibilities that came with being in charge of the Guards was making sure that every weapon in Paradise was accounted for. Inventory was certainly Joan's least favourite part of the day, but it was a must - especially if Aris and the others kept getting so absent-minded.

As Joan walked into the low building that housed the training quarters for the Guards, her mind began to wander.

* * *

The training room is huge, and she can tell that it is set up in such a way so that the circuit will be especially difficult for her.

The first station of the circuit is mixed martial arts. A man dressed in black fitness attire waits to test her. She still finds it silly that a twelve year-old has to fight a grown man.

Beyond that, the second station is swordplay. It is much harder to hold up a sword after you've been fighting with your hands.

The third station is a gun range - the rifle is waiting to be picked up and aimed, but by that point, she will be so fatigued and injured that it will be a shock if she can still hold it up.

The fourth and final station is an archery range. After two tiring combat stations and a sore shoulder from the rifle's recoil, the bow and arrow will be her worst enemy in this circuit.

The whistle goes off in one, long screech and she sprints for the man in black, ready to charge him. At the last minute, just as he tries to make a grab for her, the young girl ducks and punches him in the side of the knee. The man's leg crumples a bit and he yelps in pain, giving her the perfect opportunity to immobilize him.

Two short shots of the whistle are her signal to move onto the second station, where she picks up her sword and immediately tries to disarm the woman waiting to challenge her. Things don't quite go as planned, and the young girl feels the woman's sword nick her on the arm. But she bites her tongue to keep from screaming out, twirls around, and stops her sword just a hairline away from the woman's abdomen.

Again, two short shots of the whistle are heard, and she sprints off to the gun range.

Her arms feel like lead at this point and it is a struggle to hold up the rifle, let alone to hold it steadily. But she knows that she will not be able to move on unless she shoots right in the bullseye, and on her last circuit that took her two shots. She _has_ to be better this time.

And she is. One eye shut and the other open, the girl finds the bullseye, clenches her arm muscles, and stands her ground in preparation for the recoil. She pulls the trigger and doesn't even budge when the rifle painfully bangs against her shoulder. She has already put the rifle down by the time the two short screeches sound in her ears.

The archery range is her nemesis. It took her three shots last time to hit the bullseye, and a bow is much too unpredictable for her liking. But she _needs_ to be better, so she picks up the weapon and ignores the pain in her arms and shoulders. She tries to steady her breathing and tune out everything until all she hears is the _lub-dub_ of her heart and all she sees is the target in front of her. She pulls back the bow, arrow poised, squints at her target, and - _bullseye_.

A long screech of the whistle goes off, and she drops the bow in her hands, crumples to the ground, and finally lets out a groan of pain.

* * *

"Earth to Joan!"

Joan snapped out of her daydream and turned to one of the older Guards with a blank look. She couldn't quite place his name - her brain just kept identifying him as _Sonya's boyfriend_. Close enough, she supposed.

"Hm?" Joan grunted in response. "What is it? Inventory's in the clear, you're free to go."

"No, Gally's here," the man replied. "He wants to talk about taking out a pick-up tomorrow."

Ah, the cars. They had been found by some of the Navigators when they took a week-long trip and ventured into the unknown. Of course, the group had stumbled upon an abandoned and desolate city filled with - you guessed it - plenty of tech. Considering that WICKED had trained them to be geniuses, it wasn't too hard to fix some of the cars and computers that they had found. The Guards kept track of the cars - three Jeeps and two pick-ups.

Joan exited the low building and went around the back, where the open garage housed the five cars, to find Gally standing in front of one of the pick-ups. He whirled around at the sound of her footsteps.

"I was just - "

"Yeah, I heard," Joan interrupted. "What do you need it for, how long, and who else is coming?"

Gally didn't seem to fazed by her straightforward manner. "I was going to go get some more building materials - our stock is running low. I'll only need it for the day," he answered. "Harriet's coming along to help - she was a Builder as well, after all - and Minho lent me one of his Navigators. And before you ask, Sonya will be taking over Harriet's leadership duties, and Rose will take charge of the Foragers."

Joan nodded slowly. Everything seemed to be pretty organized. "I'm surprised Thomas doesn't want to tag along," she admitted. "He's usually all for taking day trips."

"Not really that surprising," Gally said with a snort as he motioned his head to some place behind her.

Joan turned her head and, sure enough, Thomas and Brenda were standing right behind them. He seemed to be hanging on her every word, but knowing Brenda, she was probably talking about the school curriculum or something just as work-related.

Joan rolled her eyes and gave an amused shake of her head as she returned her attention to Gally. "Of course," she muttered. "Well, I'll be here at sunrise tomorrow to give you the keys, and you need to have it back by sundown. Clear?"

"Crystal."

* * *

 **Yeah, Joan is pretty badass. She's one of my favourite TMR OCs, actually. Named after Joan of Arc, in case you didn't pick up on that, and she specializes in weaponry, combat, and mechanics.**

 **Thank you to EVERYONE that has followed/favourited - I would love to hear your thoughts on the collection so far :)**


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